


Dorian and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

by Victorionious



Series: V's Round 7 H/C Bingo [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Community: hc_bingo, Gen, Poisoning, Rain, Self-Worth Issues, Sickfic, Stabbing, Trauma Conga Line, other appearances by The Iron Bull and Sera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7855438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victorionious/pseuds/Victorionious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dorian Pavus, in no particular order, is stabbed, poisoned, caught in an explosion, falls off a cliff, and almost drowns, but still manages to make it home in time to be fashionably late for his own funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dorian and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> H/C Bingo fill for the prompt "Isolation"! I was aiming for destruction/natural disasters but the rain ended up being more of a minor detail. It's also very much a challenge I made for myself, in which I came up with a huge list of things that could go Very Wrong for a character and decided to have them all happen to Dorian in the course of a day or so.
> 
> Huge thanks to FeathersMcStrange for their amazing feedback and help with this!! You're awesome!!

_And maybe this is the end_ , he thought as he fell, _but it was a good run, wasn’t it?_

* * *

The knife came out of nowhere, as they often do, in the heat of battle. The Venatori, because when isn’t it the Venatori, had ambushed them – came out of nowhere, they’d say in the tavern, later, drinks in hand and wounds wrapped in bandages. Three rogues, two warriors, and two mages. Always the damned mages, so typical of his countrymen, Dorian thought with a grimace as he pulled out his staff, casting barriers over Sera and the Bull, who had jumped into the fray even as himself and the Inquisitor stayed back, loosing spells to control the field, make things easier for the ones in the thick of it. Though, as it always seemed to happen, the thick of it found them quickly, and Dorian found himself back-to-back with the Bull, Sera riding the Qunari’s shoulders in a well-practiced tactic, shooting arrow after arrow at their enemies. Dorian soon lost track of the Inquisitor, probably by her own intention, knowing their dear Herah, who ever-so toed the line between mage and rogue.

They weren’t vastly outnumbered, they’d faced worse odds, but the terrain was rough, uneven, rocks, boulders, and trees on one side, and a steep cliff, dangerously high above dangerous water making the border of the other. There was a storm overhead, and a light drizzle had dampened the grass and rocks beneath their feet to a precarious slick that made it difficult to keep their footing as they fought, staying away from the edge as best they could.

Sera jumped down from the Iron Bull’s shoulders to dispatch a particularly wounded enemy, and Dorian caught a flash of silver at her back. There wasn’t time to warn her, or to cast a barrier - so he used himself as one instead, taking the blade deep in his side, and -- _oh._ That shouldn’t have _burned_.

He couldn’t dwell on it though, as he let loose a burst of fire in Sera’s would-be assailant's face, knocking them back and sending them away screaming and clutching at their burns in agony. He laughed, but his fingers felt numb and the world was blurry on the edges of his vision. He sagged back a little, and thanked the Maker the Iron Bull was behind him, his weight caught on the qunari’s back.

“Dorian? You alright?” Bull called back, still engaged with the warrior in front of him.

In a voice far more confident than he actually felt, Dorian lied, “I’ll be just fine,” and stepped forward. One of the enemy mages was down, he’d seen Sera fire the fatal shot, but the other one was still around somewhere. He had only just caught sight of them, far too close to where the three friends stood, when he felt the far-too-familiar precursor to a particularly powerful casting of immolate.

He barely had time to curse before he ran forward towards the enemy, casting a barrier over the Bull and Sera, and shooting a lightning bolt at the mage in rapid succession, but it was too late to stop the spell. He only realized how very close to the cliff’s edge he was when the force of the blast knocked him over it, Sera and the Bull’s twin screams following him down.

* * *

He hit the water with a splash.

* * *

When he came to, it was to the unwelcome realization that he was freezing all over, and the eternal surprise that he was still alive to realize it. He blinked open his eyes and found that his eyelashes were stuck together with dried saltwater, sticky and painful. He gasped a breath, and it barely filled his lungs. His shoes were soaked, and Dorian soon discovered the same was true of the rest of him, robes slightly drier towards the top than the bottom. Then he felt the water rush back up to his thighs, before pulling back, and he realized he’d washed up on shore.

How he hadn’t drowned was the truest of mysteries. The last he remembered was the broken surface of the water looming above his head, disrupted by his fall, then his vision went black - be it from the poison, or the blood loss, or the impact - the number of variables was astounding.

It didn’t do to question these things, Dorian found, not when so much was on the line. The poison still coursed through his veins, and it was familiar, unfortunately. Not fatal, but weakening, if his guess was correct. He wouldn’t be able to cast for a while yet, not that it would be of much help for anything beyond drying his clothes. He failed at even the most rudimentary of healing magic, never having had the inclination nor the need to devote the time to study it. He’d have to fix that, when he was back in his warm, sequestered corner in the library of Skyhold. Herah herself, he knew, had made a point to be at least passable in the restorative arts, if not a master - and there wasn’t exactly a breadth of magic education available with the Valo Kas - but since gaining the influence and expediency that came with being a veritable Messiah to the people, she had made a point of gaining as many texts on the subject as she could find.

The moment she found him - which she would, rather soon, he gathered, taking note of the cliff he’d presumably toppled over, still within his line of sight - as soon as he was under her care, he’d be just fine. He could hope for no better.

Dorian got to his knees with a groan, grasping at his sluggishly bleeding side with shaking fingers. The cold water had slowed the bleeding, but the salt stung at the open wound. He grabbed the cloth of the short cape he wore and only managed a grimace as he tore the fabric, silently bemoaning the loss of yet another of his preferred garments, but at least it was going to a good cause. He wrapped the makeshift bandage around the wound, tying it securely in place with some pressure that hurt more than he particularly appreciated. He used the rest of the fabric to wipe the dirt and sand off his cheek and nose, then shakily got to his feet. He looked around for his staff, but it would be far too lucky for it to have washed ashore alongside him.

He had just slowly, gingerly made his way to the treeline when the skies opened up and rained vengeance down upon him. Vengeance for what, he wondered, as he ducked into the shelter of the trees, cutting his arm on a low hanging branch, because of course that’s just what he needed right now.

Dorian couldn’t be sure how long he’d been out, not judging by the state of the sky, which gave no indication as to the passage of time. It could have been several minutes or several hours, the stormy grey low-hanging clouds obscuring the position of the sun. Closer to the latter, judging by the state of his clothing. He hoped the others had managed to dispatch of the remaining assailants well enough on their own, but wasn’t especially concerned about it. They were strong, with or without him. Sometimes stronger without than with. But he couldn’t dwell on that.

Time passed slowly, in the way that time does when all you want is for something to be over and done with. The trees all looked the same, after a while, and his breath soon came in short pants. There was no sign of any other life, but for the trees and the plants and the creatures of the woods.

And it should worry him, he rather thought, that he wasn’t worried that they hadn’t found him yet. They had their own wounds to care for, their own mission to complete, report back on, and they knew full well he could take care of himself. He’d find his way back to camp, with or without their assistance. He knew where their priorities lay - with the people, the Inquisition, the world, and the fate thereof. He was but a footnote in this history, whether Varric’s novelization of it featured him prominently or not, and he damn well knew it. As he shambled to the nearest tree to steady himself, he hoped fervently it didn’t end with this. _Dorian, of House Pavus, assisted the Inquisition up until his disappearance in the fucking woods after a minor ambush._ He snorted weakly, shifting his weight against the tree. It would be a disservice, to have fought this hard and be taken out by a random Venatori attack. It simply wouldn’t do, he decided, and pushed on, gathering what little strength he had left.

It didn’t take long before he expended said strength, not on moving forward, as he’d wished, but on a body-wracking coughing fit, punctuated by half-vomits of mucus mingled with sea-water. He clung to the side of yet another tree and barely managed to keep himself from outright falling to its roots, instead lowering himself gingerly, in a way that lacked his usual grace, but at least kept him from further injury. He’d been rather surprised that this hadn’t happened yet, knowing full well that he’d been in the frigid water for longer than is necessarily advisable, and that the likelihood that he’d inhaled some of it was very high. Still, it wasn’t fun, hacking up whatever water had managed to lodge itself in his lungs, then coughing more still once it was out.

He was freezing, and his mana was nowhere near recovered enough to do anything about it. His side and chest _ached_ , and he was so, so tired. He’d mostly stopped hoping that Herah and the others would find him, at this point, but he did at least know how to get to camp, a fact that wouldn’t do him much good if he died here, curled up in a little ball beside a tree. So, without further ado, he took to his feet once again, pushing and shoving his way through rock and tree and mud.

The rain had cleared up, he’d noticed, and the grounds seemed a bit more familiar than they had closer to the bank of the river. He stumbled into the camp just in time to realize that it was, in fact, no longer camp. The remnants of a fire and disturbances in the grass and soil told him that he’d picked the right spot, but it looked like the others had moved on. Without him.

He winced around a shot of pain, though even he couldn’t tell if it was emotional or physical at this point. He studied the markings on the ground with half his attention, until he realized something. His tracking skills were crude at best, but the path of the traveling party appeared to double back on itself, heading not further towards their destination, but back towards Skyhold. They hadn’t made it very far, when they’d set out, so surely nothing could warrant going back? But they had. Maybe one of the others had been injured? He thought of the Bull, of Sera, of Adaar, and of the scouts, and worry curled in his chest.

He set off after them, faster than was strictly advisable, and didn’t stop until he could scarcely breathe.

* * *

There was something eerie about the quiet around Skyhold. There was always at least a murmur, even now, but it was far closer to silent than Dorian had ever seen it, not since the very start.

* * *

No one was waiting for him as he dragged himself up the hill that led to the fortress he more-or-less called home, these days. He didn’t really expect anyone to be _waiting_ for him, per se, although the sentiment would’ve been nice. However, what was more concerning was that there was, in the less literal sense, nobody waiting for him - no figures came into sight as he rounded the path, no followers who still fiercely believed Herah to be the Herald of Andraste, no matter how many times she said otherwise, saying their prayers. No loiterers, walking about after some time at the Herald’s Rest. The sky had cleared, revealing thousands of shimmering stars, but no one was out to enjoy the weather. There was an air of solemnity about Skyhold this night, and it sent a chill down Dorian’s spine.

He had walked right up through the gates without seeing a soul, which was explained as soon as he cast his gaze up, forward, to the gardens. The Inquisitor stood with her back to the world, and it seemed that every other person she called friend were gathered around her, staring at the same spot in the ground. Cole appeared beside him, then, and Dorian stared at him in confusion.

“What happened?” Dorian asked, voice pitched quiet, even though he was too far away for anyone to hear him unless he yelled.

“Lost but lingering, bleeding but breathing,” Cole stared into Dorian’s eyes, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “I tried to tell them, but they would not listen. _Did they even look for me? Do they even care?”_ his voice pitched and so did he, Dorian catching him as he leaned in. “You don’t believe them, don’t believe you should, that you deserve it.” Cole tilted his chin up, steadying himself, resting a long-fingered hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “You are hurting but you will heal, in more ways than one. Go to them,” he said. “Show them what I could not.”

Dorian swallowed, a horrible suspicion entering his mind, and took a step forward, then glanced back at Cole. The spirit was gone. He shook his head, ignoring the headache it left him with, and moved upon the inner circle, gathered in the garden. The toils of the past day were hitting him again, and they were hitting him _hard_.

Leliana caught sight of him first, and let out a quiet gasp, but the Inquisitor was saying something, and not prepared to be interrupted. He couldn’t make out her words, even as he approached them. He caught sight of his staff, wrapped in a silver cloth, set in front of what was unmistakably a grave marker, and let out a breathless laugh. All heads snapped to him, at that, various sounds of surprise filling the air.

“Now, my dear Inquisitor,” he said, barely noticing how weak and scratchy his voice was, “That is neither a bust nor is it in marble. I feel like I should be mortally offended.”

He barely had time to take in the Inquisitor dashing towards him as he fell into a dead faint. Thin arms caught him, but he was too far gone to notice. 

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a sequel. Stay tuned ;)


End file.
